


Someday

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian's twenty-three when Mickey asks him to marry him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someday

          Ian’s twenty-two when Mickey asks him to marry him.

          More accurately, maybe, he’s twenty-two when Mickey first climbs on top of him, his lips attached to his neck and his thighs working overtime to work Ian’s cock with his ass. Ian spends the whole time gasping and raking his nails down Mickey’s sides, through his hair, tugging him down into kiss after kiss after kiss. Mickey groans out “I love you” as he comes over Ian’s stomach, and Ian keeps going and going until he thrusts up with an arch of his back and one final moan as he spills into Mickey.

          He’s twenty-three by the time Mickey rolls off of him, panting loudly to recover his breath. Birthday sex is always some of their best sex, and Mickey seems exhausted from fucking Ian right over the line past midnight—but where most people would here turn, smile, and say, “Happy birthday,” the way they’re trained to do by a lifetime of seeing good timing played out perfectly in Nicholas Sparks romances, instead Mickey’s index finger brushes over Ian’s pinky and he’s staring up at the ceiling when he breathes out, “I’m gonna marry you someday.”

          Ian freezes completely. His heart pounds wildly away in his chest, and he briefly wonders if there has ever been a recorded case of orgasm-induced hysteria. If not, he’s ninety percent sure he’s about to make a killing on a scientific discovery, right before he kills Mickey for the joke.

          A million and one thoughts race through his head, but before he can give voice to any of them (most of them confused, burning questions) his mouth settles on, “Someday?” like clarification for faint hope is the most pressing part of what just happened.

          He’s staring intensely at Mickey’s profile, so he doesn’t miss it when Mickey turns to give him an exhausted yet blissful smile.

          “Someday soon,” Mickey says.

          Their apartment is quiet and Ian thinks that he’s never heard anything louder in his entire life.

          He doesn’t ask for details. Instead, he slowly, carefully, twines his fingers through Mickey’s. Mickey’s smile dims to a faint glow, and Ian doesn’t—can’t—look away from him.

          The clock reads 12:15. He’s pretty sure twenty-three is his favorite year yet.

 

          Ian hasn’t been exactly _rewarding_ Mickey for the engagement, but something about it is definitely putting a spring in his step. Or his hips, whatever.

          “Oh, _god_.”

          Mickey’s punched-out moan fills Ian’s head until it’s all he can hear, and he thrusts into him harder, wanting, needing to earn more sounds from Mickey’s pretty parted lips. Mickey’s legs fall open further around him, and Ian grunts in encouragement as he runs a hand up Mickey’s side and up to caress the side of his face, his thumb brushing across Mickey’s bottom lip. Ian hears his own name somewhere in the mix of unintelligible noises flooding from Mickey’s mouth, and when Mickey licks his lips his tongue catches the edge of Ian’s thumb.

          “Ian,” Mickey says again, more clearly this time. His eyes are wide and searching Ian’s face for something, but Ian’s too busy focusing on making this the best fuck of Mickey’s life to pay attention. They’ve been having a lot of those lately—a lot of best fucks of their lives. Every time Ian thinks he can’t love Mickey any more, and every time he’s wrong.

          Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s back, his fingers scratching at the dip of it, and Ian takes that to mean he’s close to his finish. Ian speeds up, pulling Mickey’s head to an angle by his hair so he can more easily fit their lips together, and Mickey’s mouth is hot around his tongue.

          The question that’s been nagging in the back of his thoughts for weeks and weeks resurfaces, tugging relentlessly at his mind. However much he wants to do nothing but kiss and fuck and lose himself entirely in Mickey, he pulls away. Mickey immediately leans up to attach his mouth to Ian’s shoulder, sucking lightly at the skin—not enough to bruise, but like he just needs a taste of some part of him. Ian waits until he pulls away, his head falling back into the pillow right as he rolls his hips up.

          “Why now?” Ian asks through heavy breaths. He pulls Mickey’s hips up so he can pound into him from a different angle.

          Mickey inhales hard and reaches back to fist his hand into the sheets near the top edge of the bed. He sounds dizzy when he asks, “What?”

          “Why now?” Ian repeats. “I’ve wanted to get married for…years.” He pauses, long enough to slam into Mickey just right and draw out a long, satisfied groan. “And you knew it. But I…made my peace…with you not wanting that again. Awhile ago.”

          Mickey grabs his shoulders, pulling him down further on top of him. “So?”

          “So what changed?”

          “Fuck, _Jesus_. Nothing changed, Ian. Nothing…oh fuck, oh fuck. I just...knew you—I just wanted that. You. Just wanted you.”

          Ian slows down, pulls back enough to search his face. Mickey answers with a whining noise and digs the heels of both feet into Ian’s ass, and when he doesn’t respond to neither that nor Mickey’s plaintive, “Come on, come _on_ ,” Mickey rolls them over and starts riding him hard.

          Ian’s immediately responsive to that; he grabs Mickey’s hips and plants his feet to thrust hard into him. His fiancé. Fuck. “When do you…want to…do it?”

          “We _are_ doing it.”

          Mickey’s not even smirking when he says it, which means Ian’s dick has by now effectively dismantled all higher cognitive functions and he’s going to have to try harder to have this already one-sided conversation.

          “When do you want the…ceremony?”

          “I don’t know. I don’t know. Whenever you—” The rest of his sentence gets overshadowed by the moan he lets out, and Ian is momentarily too distracted by the arch of Mickey’s flushed throat when he tilts back his head to remember to prompt him to repeat himself. Red rises high on Mickey’s cheeks as his breathing pattern picks up even more, but he manages to look Ian in the eye and say, “Whenever you want it.”

          “Soon as possible,” Ian says immediately. Mickey neither agrees nor dissents, so Ian switches tactics. He leans up to grab Mickey around the middle and flips them back over in a swift motion, reclaiming the ability to properly thrust into him, of which he takes full and energetic advantage. “How’s…July?” he tries again.

          Mickey grabs Ian around the neck and pulls him down into a messy kiss, and Ian considers the conversation effectively abandoned. Mickey comes first not long afterwards, his strangled “ _Ian!_ ” lost somewhere in the back of Ian’s mouth, and he keeps kissing Ian sloppily until he finishes too.

          Ian keeps close when he shifts off him, his arm slung carelessly over Mickey’s waist with his face tucked into his neck. He’s content to stay there all afternoon and into the night—content to fall asleep like this, really—but Mickey interrupts his peaceful half-consciousness.

          “There’s a place,” he begins slowly, and Ian tilts his face so he can look up towards him. “There’s an opening for this room with this guy. Real small, real cheap. But there’s a space in June...if you want.”

          Ian needs a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, but when he pieces it together, he lifts his head slightly to look at Mickey.

          “Are you setting a date?” A slow, ridiculous smile is spreading across his face and he’s doing absolutely nothing to stop it.

          “No,” says Mickey sharply. “Forget it, I don’t care. July is fine.”

          “No no no!” Ian protests. He sits up more fully so he can frame Mickey’s face with his hands, forcing Mickey to keep looking at him. “June works. June’s perfect. Do you want me to call the place?”

          Mickey sits up, pulling himself out of Ian’s hold. He settles against the headboard and ducks his head.

          “I already reserved a spot,” he admits, determinedly not meeting Ian’s gaze. “Figured I could just cancel if you didn’t like it.” He glances up and even affords him a tiny smile when he adds, “How’s June twelfth?”

          “June twelfth?” Ian repeats. “You want to get married on June twelfth?”

          Mickey shrugs. “Why not?”

          Ian feels filled up with something—happiness, love, he isn’t sure what to name it. He just knows he wants to kiss Mickey and maybe never stop. So he does. Mickey’s surprised at first when Ian practically falls on top of him just to cover his mouth with his own, but he recovers quickly and kisses back with equal enthusiasm. Ian only pulls away a few minutes later, when his laughter starts bubbling up and makes it difficult to keep up with Mickey’s tongue in his mouth. He buries his face in Mickey’s shoulder instead, waiting for his uncontainable joy to subside.

          When he’s a little more in control, he presses his lips apologetically to the bare skin beneath him. Mickey’s hand stills where it’s been petting through his hair, and Ian grins up at him.

          “My _fiancé_ just set a _date_ ,” he explains. He smiles sillily for a couple of seconds before succumbing to laughter again, snorting his amusement against Mickey’s throat.

          Mickey bends to kiss the top of his head, and his hand picks up its rhythm again. Ian can hear the smile in his voice when he says quietly, “Yeah, he did.”

 

          “We’re getting married in a month,” Mickey starts out cautiously, and Ian looks up from his lunch with half a burger still stuffed in his mouth.

          “Yeah?”

          “So, I got you something.”

          “You what?”

          “I got you something!” Mickey repeats a little more snippily, so Ian knows that whatever it is, it’s important and Mickey’s embarrassed about it.

          He swallows his large mouthful of food and says slowly, “Okay…What’d you get me?”

          Mickey shoves his hand in his pocket and reaches across the battered diner table between them. His hand hovers above Ian’s, even when he turns his palm up to catch whatever it is. Mickey pauses.

          “It’s stupid,” he says, watching Ian closely. “So don’t—whatever. Just figured it’s a thing people do, so I should—you know. Do it. Yeah.”

          With that he drops the present into Ian’s hand, and as soon as Ian catches it he draws his arm back to inspect it. It’s a tiny ring, about big enough for his ring finger. The band is battered and worn but looks solid silver, and despite the scuff marks Ian think it might not be used. After a few seconds he looks up at where Mickey’s chewing on his lip with his mouth slightly open.

          “Is this—?”

          “I got it for like thirty bucks down at the junk shop,” Mickey interrupts him with red cheeks. “Okay, fuck, I bought it off this guy I knew at the junk _yard_. Still, it’s not—I mean—”

          Ian leans over the table, effectively shutting him up with the firm kiss he plants on his lips.

          “I love it,” he assures him. He holds the engagement ring out and wiggles his left hand at Mickey. “Want to put it on me?” he teases.

          Mickey rolls his eyes, the color fading his cheeks slightly. “Shut up,” he says, grabbing a few fries to toss at Ian’s head. They graze his cheek, and Ian laughs as he takes a full handful to throw back at him. He makes sure to slip the ring securely onto his finger before he does.

          Mickey eyes the ring a little and gets a faceful of fries for his distraction, which leads to him throwing the bun of his burger, which causes Ian to grab his milkshake and dump the entire thing over Mickey’s head.

          “That was worth it,” Ian says as they walk down the street a few minutes later, a firm warning at their backs to never set foot in that fast food place ever again.

          “For you, maybe,” Mickey grumbles, running his hand through his hair to try and dislodge the milkshake caked firmly into the strands. “I need a shower after a goddamn lunch date.”

          “And not even for the fun reason,” says Ian. Mickey shoves his shoulder and he laughs as he stumbles. “I’m sorry, Mickey,” he says with the sincerest expression he can muster; Mickey’s eyes narrow guardedly. “Do you want me to make it up to you with some of the fun reason? Maybe in the shower or something?”

          “Fuck you,” says Mickey.

          Ian grins, and when Mickey goes to shove him again, he catches his hand to stop him and twines their fingers together. The metal band of his new ring knocks awkwardly between their fingers; he’ll have to get used to the added space. Mickey evidently notices his smile soften, because when he looks over, he tightens his hold on Ian’s hand. Ian squeezes back.

          Engagement’s a lot of work, a lot of the same relationship stuff, and a heavy band on his left hand. Ian could get used to it.

 

          His phone vibrates on and off in his pocket for half an hour before he gets his break. Ian leaves the woman he’s training, tells her to do some stretches while he’s gone, and heads into the fitness center’s break room to check his messages.

          Every single one of them is from Mickey. Most are rude text messages defaming his character, personality, physical appearance, and sexual prowess, and all are sent because he didn’t pick up when Mickey called the first three times. He hits Mickey’s number on his speed dial, rolling his eyes at his coworkers across the room and pointing to his phone while he waits for Mickey to pick up. They all giggle before going back to their conversation.

          Mickey answers and, without bothering with a proper greeting, snaps, “Took you long enough!”

          “I’m at work, dumbass,” Ian says, rolling his eyes again. He leans a little more heavily on the wall and adds, “So what exactly prompted all the phone calls, Glenn Close?”

          The sentence is barely out before Mickey’s snapping, “What the fuck is this?”

          Ian waits a beat for him to continue, but Mickey seems to have hit his limit and he doesn’t elaborate.

          “You…you do know I can’t see you, right?”

          “Fuck you!” says Mickey. Ian bites his lips hard to stop himself from smiling. “What the fuck is this text you sent me this morning?”

          “Oh…”

          “Yeah, _oh_.” Mickey makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat. “Why the _fuck_ do you think your shithead piece of fuck excuse for a brother is staying with us the week before the wedding?”

          At a loss for where to begin—because he knew he would have to work Mickey hard for this one yet still failed to prepare a convincing argument—Ian pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Mickey…”

          “No way. No fucking way!”

          “ _Yes_ fucking way,” he snipes back. “I don’t give a shit if you want to…to…wait until he dies and then piss on his fucking grave, laughing about how you hated him all along and flipping off our relatives. For now, Lip’s staying with us.”

          “And you didn’t think you should run that one by me?”

          “I knew you’d say no, dickhead. Jesus, I’m not asking you to sell him a fucking kidney. I’m not even asking you to be nice—God knows he won’t be. I’m just telling you my brother’s gotta stay with us, jeez.”

          Ian looks up then, and notices that all of his coworkers are staring worriedly at him. He waves them off, rolling his eyes again.

          “Why?” Mickey demands. “Don’t tell me he ain’t got a bed in that fucking madhouse you call a childhood home.”

          “Oh, you do _not_ get to talk shit about my house after the night I rolled over wrong and found out your sister packs heat in her pillowcase.” Mickey makes a grumbly noise of assent, and he goes on. “Anyway, he’s flying in and Fi, Debbie, and Carl all have dates staying with them—and some of your brothers too, since Mandy can only fit two in her guest. So shut up and deal with it.”

          Mickey goes quiet for a minute, probably trying to think up more counterarguments against spending an extended amount of time with Lip. Ian taps his foot impatiently while he waits.

          Finally, Mickey just lets out a groan. “Fuck, fine! You owe me for this, asshole.”

          Ian laughs. “I owe you for grudgingly letting my family into our spare bed?”

          “Yes,” Mickey says, voice hard.

          He can’t help the little smile that works its way over his mouth when he imagines Mickey, probably pouting away in his car or at his job or wherever he is. “Fine, you child.” He drops his voice a little and ducks his head down, so that his coworkers—whom he knows are listening—can’t hear him. “I could pick up some of the good warming lube you like later. The expensive one. We ran out last Christmas…”

          He tries to make his tone as tempting as possible, and he can tell from Mickey’s silence that he’s considering it, even though he snorts a second later.

          “That all? Special lube and you think that’s gonna make up for me having to look at Lip’s smug fucking face for a week straight?”

          “I’ll cook you dinner,” he presses. “No takeout for a week and you don’t have to so much as look at a cutting board.” Mickey doesn’t say anything, so he goes on some more. “We can watch Under Siege as many times as you want. I won’t even complain.” He pauses, but Mickey still stays silent—probably wondering if Ian’s going to sweeten the deal any further, the fucker—and Ian licks his lips and drops his voice even lower. “Hey, Mick…you ever gotten eaten out while watching Under Siege?”

          Mickey’s little intake of breath tells him he’s already won, but he wants to hear Mickey say it, so he goes on, turning a little more away from the curious gazes of his coworkers and hoping being across the room is enough to keep them from being able to hear him.

          “You ever think about my mouth on your ass while you’re watching it? Or wait—what about me letting you sit on my face? My tongue inside you—”

          “Ian,” he hisses warningly. “This is not the fucking time for—”

          “—just _really_ riding my mouth—”

          “Alright, alright!” Mickey half-shouts. Ian laughs softly, and he curses. “ _Fuck_. Fine, alright. Your fucking brother can stay with us. Goddamn it.”

          “You are so easy,” Ian teases.

          “You’re damn right, and I’m holding you to it. All of it. Buy me that fucking warming lube or we’re gonna have problems.”

          “Okay, alright, Jesus. Calm the fuck down. Give me the address, I’ll pick it up on my way home.”

          He can hear Mickey immediately rifling around on the other end, and some people talking to him in the background—he must be at work after all. Ian’s mostly zoning out, waiting for Mickey to find the address, when one of his coworkers breaks through his thoughts.

          “Problems with the boyfriend?” she asks with a slight, sympathetic twist to her smile.

          “No,” he answers truthfully. Opposite of a problem once the face-sitting part of their deal kicks in, really.

          Her brow furrows, but she forges on. “You know, I have this therapist my ex and I talked to when things got bad. Couldn’t do shit about the cheating, but when we were angry and stuff about stupid shit, he said—”

          Ian waves her off. “Seriously, we’re fine,” he insists. A tiny smile works its way onto his face; seriously, they’re more than fine. “We’re…”

          He doesn’t continue, and one of the others raises his eyebrows at him.

          “New boyfriend?” he guesses, wrongly. “You look all in the…honeymoon stage.” He waves his hands around in the air as though gesturing to Ian’s entire general being.

          Ian raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “Old boyfriend,” he says. “Almost ten years, actually.” Depending from when he starts counting, anyway.

          The first girl smiles and tries again. “Wow. Did he finally ask you to move with him or something?”

          “No.” Ian pauses, but doesn’t bother hiding his grin when he marvels, “He’s gonna marry me.”

          He feels a little far away when he admits it—he hasn’t really told anyone outside of the necessary people. It’s just going to be a small ceremony, probably with whatever siblings or friends they each can scrounge up plus a minister, or the closest thing they can find. Saying the words out loud, though, makes him feel a little light in a good way.

          His coworkers are murmuring congratulations, but Ian’s not listening. The first thing that breaks through his hazy thoughts is Mickey’s voice through the phone, far away like he’s talking to someone in the background.

          “Nah, I can fucking deal. For him.” He pauses, and when he starts talking again, Ian can hear in his voice that he’s smiling. “I’m gonna marry him.”

          Ian can feel his own smile growing, and he feels a little like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest—but then Mickey’s speaking to him again, and he has to struggle to refocus his attention on what he’s saying.

          “Hey…Ian, you still there?”

          Ian bites his lip. “Yeah. I’m still here.”

 

          “ _Fuck_!”

          Ian looks up from where he’s hunched over the coffee table in the living room, eyes flicking towards where Mickey’s shut up in their bedroom.

          “Uh—Mick?” he calls. When met with no forthcoming answer, Ian sighs, puts down his pen, and gets to his feet.

          He pushes open their bedroom door tentatively, eyes immediately fixed on the figure laying out backwards on the bed with a pen between his teeth and a pad of paper—the top sheet once again crumpled—beneath his hands.

          “Mickey?” he asks again, and Mickey looks up with thoroughly knitted brows. He drops his tone to sympathetic. “Not going so well, huh?”

          Mickey glares down at the paper again. “This is stupid,” he declares. “Vows are fucking stupid.”

          Ian would laugh if he wasn’t having so much trouble with his own. Instead, he chances sitting down on the edge of the bed, and Mickey edges another failed draft away so Ian can’t read any of it. He doesn’t bother, instead reaching out to smooth his hand through Mickey’s hair.

          “It’s just words, Mickey,” he reminds him. “Just some words on some paper. We make each other sappy promises and then we’re married and that’s all that matters. Besides, I figured they’d been fuck-all to you. Eyes on the prize, right?”

          He tries to keep his tone encouraging, upbeat, but Mickey just closes his eyes tiredly and turns so Ian’s fingers trail down his cheek instead. His hand anchors Ian’s by his face, and he presses a kiss to his palm.

          “They’re not just words,” he mumbles. “Not just some fucking words. Not just a fucking piece of paper. Not with you.”

          Ian freezes for a second, and then slowly extricates his hand. Mickey looks up at him, and Ian slides further onto the bed, leaning down to kiss him slow and gentle.

          “Love you, Mickey,” he mutters when they’re leaning with their foreheads together, Mickey’s fingers light on his ribs. “Love you and the rest of it is stupid.”

          “Thought you wanted—”

          “Doesn’t matter,” says Ian, and only finds that it’s true once he says it. “We don’t need vows. You’re marrying me and I’m marrying you and—and we’re gonna be stuck with each other. Forever. That kinda counts, doesn’t it?”

          Mickey thinks it over for a few seconds, and then he’s sitting up and pushing closer with a little laugh. His hands come up to frame Ian’s face, and he leans close like he’s going to kiss him. Instead he bumps his nose to Ian’s lightly.

          “Guess that’s kind of a promise,” he agrees. “With us.”

          Ian smiles. “I think so,” he says.

          Mickey bites his lip for a second before leaning in to cover Ian’s mouth with his. When he kisses him, it sure feels like a promise of something.

 

          Mandy is kind of terrifying, but Ian supposes he signed up for that when he became her best friend eight years ago.

          “And don’t you dare think about getting up in the middle of the night,” Mandy growls, her black fingernails digging hard into Ian’s arm. “I have a top-notch security system, so if you leave this apartment, I will fucking know.”

          Ian has to fight hard not to laugh, knowing it will only incense her further. “Mands, you installed that system yourself.”

          “And I’m really fucking good at mech stuff, so watch it.” She raises her eyebrow menacingly until he nods his assent, and just like that her snarl disappears, replaced with a smile so natural it might have never left her face. “Ooh, this is going to be so much fun! It’ll be like having a sleepover again! Huh, Ian? Remember those? Remember how we used to get drunk and dance around to bad party music?”

          “I remember smoking a lot of pot and passing out on your living room couch,” he says.

          She laughs. “Well, none of that tonight,” she says regretfully. “If you show up anything but one thousand percent ready tomorrow, Fiona and Debbie will slit our throats.”

          Ian’s glad Mandy moved back to Chicago; she wasn’t in Indiana a year before she showed back up yelling about dodging what sounded like serious self-defense charges, and Ian made sure to never ask about what happened to her ex while she slotted back into their lives as easily as if she’d never left them. They ended up getting apartments two blocks away from each other, which is nice for Ian because he can see his best friend pretty much any time he wants.

          It’s especially nice tonight, when he can go see Mickey despite Mandy’s dire threats to cut off his balls if he leaves her apartment. So, despite warnings of personal injury, he swipes his key out of where she hid it in the kitchen cabinet, dismantles her security system, and slips out down the fire escape at a little past one a.m., after making sure Mandy’s sound asleep with Legally Blonde still playing in the background.

          He ends up having to stack some boxes from the alleyway just to reach the fire escape on his own building, but he manages it, and nearly twenty minutes after leaving Mandy’s he’s jimmying the lock on the window and slipping into his own living room.

          He makes his way into the bedroom in the dark, shutting the door softly behind him. He’s pulling his shirt over his head, pretty sure he’s in the clear, when a voice comes out from the middle of the room.

          “Couldn’t go one night without my sorry ass, huh?”

          Ian snorts and starts undoing his jeans. “I don’t exactly see you sound asleep,” he points out. “Miss me that bad?”

          Mickey scoffs. Ian pushes his jeans off and moves around to his side of the bed.

          “Ain’t it bad luck to see me before the wedding or something?” Mickey asks. “That’s why you’re at Mandy’s, right?”

          He reaches a hand out behind him and gropes around until Ian slips beneath the covers into range, and he can close his hand over Ian’s hip and tug him closer. Ian shuffles over to fit himself against Mickey’s back. He slips his arms around him.

          “I’m pretty sure that’s the bride, Mick. And her dress.” He’s close enough that his lips brush the back of Mickey’s neck when he talks. “Think we’re in the clear. But you’ve got the traditions down, if you ever want to trade in for another woman.”

          Mickey kicks him in the shin. Ian laughs even through his tiny groan of pain.

          “Too bad I kinda like you, then. Won’t get to put any of my knowledge to good use.”

          “Mandy might still get married. You’ll make the best maid of honor.”

          Mickey kicks him again. Ian laughs and kisses his hair.

          “Love you, too,” Ian says.

          Mickey’s hand closes over his where it’s lying on the blankets in front of his chest. Ian thinks he’s going to retaliate more because of his snark, but Mickey just squeezes his hand and shifts a little closer back against him. Ian lets him drift for a minute or so before he says, “Hey, Mick?”

          Mickey takes a second to answer, and Ian thinks he fell asleep, but then he replies in a pissed off-sounding grunt.

          “I’m going to kill you if you don’t let me go to sleep.” When Ian doesn’t say anything, Mickey adds, “ _What_?”

          Ian still doesn’t answer right away. Instead he noses at Mickey’s hair, extracts his hand from Mickey’s and trails his fingers across his chest, down his stomach, and gets a firm grip around his waist. Mickey presses even closer to him, and Ian leans up to brush his lips by Mickey’s ear.

          “We’re getting married tomorrow,” he whispers. He can’t keep the smile from forming, and he feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin in the best possible way. He has to hide his face in Mickey’s neck, because he’s not sure he can live another second without touching Mickey everywhere he can.

          He can hear that Mickey’s smiling too when he says, “You’re gonna be stuck with me for _life_.”

          Ian nods, kisses his throat, and settles back behind him with his head on the pillow. “Can’t fucking wait,” he whispers.

          They fall asleep all tangled up together, and when he slips back into Mandy’s apartment at five in the morning—Mickey stirring when he moves, them parting with a soft kiss and the unspoken promise of seeing one another again in a couple of hours—she barely lifts her head when he slides into bed beside her.

          “You two are disgusting,” she mutters, “but I’m gonna let it slide that you ignored me and went to see him, given that you shower me in gifts as thanks.”

          Ian laughs quietly and grabs her hand in his. He squeezes it. Mandy has, after all, done a lot of things for him over the years. Putting him and Mickey on each other’s radars might be the first and best of them.

 

          Panic manifests differently in everyone, as Ian is coming to know.

          For instance, Fiona’s going from room to room yelling at everything that moves. Lip is chain smoking out the window in Ian’s room. Mandy keeps dropping by to check up on him only to immediately tear up and run back out. Mickey won’t stop texting him at twenty minute intervals about how this whole thing is stupid and they should have just eloped and moved to Canada, which makes Ian feel a little like the best man instead of one of the ones getting married, but apparently he’s the only one from whom Mickey will take reassurance so he has to regularly step out into the hallway to call his fiancé and remind him that this tiny excuse for a wedding is in everyone’s best interest unless they want to wake up one morning to find their sisters standing over them with knives.

          He returns to his room after yet another conversation with Mickey and sets up in front of the mirror, straightening his already level tie and generally fussing until Lip grinds out his cigarette and leads Ian by the elbow out of the room, and then he’s walking through hallways and hallways and the next thing he really registers is standing in front of the doors to the main hall.

          Mickey didn’t want to be relegated the bridal position and have to walk down the aisle to swelling music with everyone’s eyes on him, and neither had he. Neither of them had anyone to give them away, either, because Fiona was already managing most of the ceremony and Mickey threatened to kneecap Iggy when he snickered and offered to walk Mickey down the aisle. In the end they decided to just meet up by the minister.

          That doesn’t stop Debbie and Fiona (seriously) and Lip (sarcastically) from cheering as Ian blushes his way up to the front. He’s spacing out, picking at his nails and watching the Milkoviches directly in his line of sight when they all suddenly start hooting and catcalling, and he takes a deep, measured breath before turning towards the doors.

          Mickey’s flushing and glaring as he hurries up to the front in a deeply black tux, and Ian can’t stop smiling at him. He holds his hands out when Mickey gets close and Mickey takes them without dramatics, but when Ian leans close and brushes his lips by Mickey’s ear, he hears him mutter, “Fucking ridiculous.”

          He ignores his discomfort and whispers, “Hey, handsome. You look fucking amazing, no shock there.”

          He’s smiling widely when he pulls back, and Mickey’s grimace melts when he catches sight of Ian’s expression. He squeezes Ian’s hands and smiles back.

          “Not bad yourself,” he says, biting the edge of his lip and sweeping his eyes over Ian. Ian laughs.

          The minister clears his throat, but Ian doesn’t look away from Mickey, and Mickey is staring steadily back.

          Since they don’t have vows, and Ian correctly guessed that Mickey would get fidgety standing up there just holding hands and staring at each other, the minister skips right to the usual spiel. Mickey’s hands tighten around his just a little when he gets to the _sickness and health_ bit, and Ian smiles slightly. God, he wants to kiss Mickey so badly. His eyes travel down his tuxedo, and he thinks—well, maybe a little more than kiss, but he’ll settle for a little making out before the reception.

          He mumbles his _I do_ more robotically than he intended, because he can’t stop looking at Mickey’s mouth and he’s barely listening anymore, plus he’s smiling so widely he can barely get the words out anyway. He can’t wait until he can kiss him and have Mickey be his husband, and he just wants it all to be over so he can kiss him and fuck him and be _married_.

          He almost misses it when Mickey says _I do_ , a little gruffly, but he starts back to reality when he notices Mickey smiling slightly up at him and hears the promised land of being told to seal it all with a kiss.

          Originally he intends it to be a chaste, sweet kiss, of promise and love and hope and the future, or whatever. As soon as Mickey rocks up and meets his lips, though, he forgets every intention of gentleness and presses back, kisses him harder, abandons Mickey’s hands to run his own up across Mickey’s neck to cradle his face. Mickey drops back down to flat feet when Ian pushes forwards, his fingers digging in by Ian’s waist even through his suit. Ian doesn’t mean to deepen it either, but then Mickey tugs minutely on his jacket, and Ian drops his lips open just that little bit, enough for Mickey to latch desperately on his top lip the way he always does, and Ian sucks automatically on his bottom lip in answer. The second Mickey lets go, Ian turns his head and goes back in, kissing him hard and feeling Mickey’s tongue barely graze his lip. His brushes his thumb over Mickey’s jaw and wonders how long they can keep kissing before someone objects.

          Mickey pulls away first, breathing a little harder than usual as he leans his head against Ian’s cheek, and Ian can see him smiling out of the corner of his eye. He resists the urge to kiss down Mickey’s neck and leans back instead, out of Mickey’s arms.

          Mandy’s faking vomiting behind Mickey’s back, and a few brothers are making choking gestures. He doesn’t even want to imagine what his own family is doing behind him, and the few friends scattered before them aren’t nearly as interesting as the man in front of him, so he settles for grabbing Mickey’s hand again and squeezing as he smiles over at him.

          They have to take cabs to the reception, which is really just a bar, and despite Liam trying to climb into theirs Ian insists on getting one just for him and Mickey. He’s got his tongue in Mickey’s mouth before they even pull out of the parking lot, and when Mickey tugs him over into his lap, he goes willingly.

          “You think we got time for a quickie?” Mickey asks as Ian mouths up his throat and starts licking and nibbling on his ear.

          “No,” Ian answers, even as he presses his ass further down on Mickey’s lap.

          Mickey hums. “Then stop wasting time,” he says decisively. When Ian pulls back in confusion, he wraps his hand around the back of his head and pulls him back down to his lips.

          He doesn’t really notice them pulling up to the new building until the cabbie clears his throat a few times, and even then Mickey has to pinch him hard on the ass for him to stop trying to work his hand beneath Mickey’s layers.

          “Sorry,” Ian says, flushing slightly and not feeling sorry at all as he climbs off of Mickey and out of the cab. Mickey scoffs like he knows he’s lying and slaps a twenty into the driver’s hand before following him out.

          They take a second to smooth their tuxes out before proceeding, but Ian finishes first and watching Mickey run his hands down his chest has him giddy. He bites his lip and edges back into his space, nudging Mickey’s hands out of the way as he gets a grip on either side of his waist.

          “Hey,” he whispers. He can tell he’s smiling like an idiot but he doesn’t care, too busy edging closer and closer. “Hey,” he says again.

          Mickey runs his hands up Ian’s back. “Hey,” he whispers back, looking confused. His eyes flick down to Ian’s wide smile and he arches an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

          “You,” Ian answers, nuzzles his cheek to Mickey’s, his lips by his ear when he breathes, “You’re my husband.”

          Mickey snorts, but he’s smiling fondly up at him when Ian leans away. “You’re my husband,” he agrees.

          Ian’s two seconds away from kissing him again when they’re loudly interrupted by their families.

          Mandy interjects first, wrinkling her nose and shouting out to them. “Yo, you’re not gonna start devouring each other’s faces again, are you?”

          “Come inside,” Fiona calls, slightly less agonistically, and leaning out the doorway to the bar.

          Ian rolls his eyes one more time, drops another quick peck to Mickey’s lips, and unwinds himself to lead him inside.

          They drop into a corner booth on the same side. Mickey presses inappropriately close to him, his thigh hot through their pants. He looks ridiculously smug when Lip comes over to offer them beer, and significantly less so when Lip stops for a few minutes to chat and give them congratulations aimed exclusively at Ian before he wanders off.

          They mostly drink and stare at each other while people come by intermittently to tell them congrats—some of them strangers, since they didn’t bother to rent out the bar properly. Ian’s snuffing laughter into Mickey’s neck over something stupid he said, Mickey’s smile light and his fingers lighter where they run idly through the hair just above his neck, when they’re interrupted with a sharp command to have their first dance.

          Mickey doesn’t really dance, and Ian can tell he almost wants to protest, but he pulls him to his feet before he can and leads him out to this little space where the tables have been pushed a few feet away. They’re playing a Bright Eyes song Mandy showed him years ago—First Day of My Life—and everyone seems to be waiting for them. He curls his hand around Mickey’s, leans in—whispers, “I love you,” just a breath by his ear—and slowly starts to turn them.

          Mickey’s not an expert dancer, and Ian’s really better with hip-thrusting, grinding, dirty pop music than he is at slow dancing, but they shift and sway together and it feels okay. Better than okay. Mickey keeps looking at him more intensely than he ever has, and Ian keeps ducking down to kiss him. They keep this up until Mickey ducks his head into Ian’s neck and turns them in another circle, picking up the lead for a spin. Ian presses closer, kissing his hair before laying his cheek against it. Mickey keeps dropping kisses to the skin beneath his lips, private, just for Ian, and Ian starts to gently rub his back. By the time the song shifts and more people squeeze into the makeshift dancefloor to join them, he’s forgotten almost everything but Mickey’s lips on his and his ring digging sharply in the space between their connected fingers.

          Mickey allows for one more dance before pulling Ian back into their booth, trapping Ian on the inside so he can’t willfully get up and force more dancing out of him. Ian leans his head on Mickey’s shoulder and doesn’t try to coax him.

          Eventually, Veronica places a cake before them, smiling sunnily and humming a wedding march that the others quickly pick up. Their jumbled voices are off-key and out of sync, and Ian laughs until Mickey scoops up some cake and sucks his finger into his own mouth. He glares at Mickey’s cheeky smile, and—slow, so Mickey can watch his every move—reaches over to wipe some frosting off the corner of his mouth. Mickey’s eyes never leave his as he sucks it off his finger, licking over it when he’s done just to get Mickey’s blood pressure up. He’s not disappointed; Mickey looks frustrated, and Ian’s laughing again by the time Mickey grabs the front of his tux and pulls him in for a rougher, biting kiss.

          “My husband’s an asshole,” Mickey mutters into his neck afterwards.

          Ian pushes him back. His lips tug up relentlessly. “Say that again,” he demands.

          Mickey shakes his head, smiling now too. With extra emphasis, he repeats, “ _My husband_ ,” and Ian smiles all the way through the kiss he pulls him into right after.

          They spend most of the reception huddled in their booth together, laughing and eating and kissing, and only finally move when Mandy appears and starts tugging relentlessly on Mickey’s arm.

          “Your car’s ready!” she shouts. “Come on, come on!”

          Ian would wonder why she is so excited for them to start their honeymoon, but he knows that she spent the past week readying this car for them, which—mainly because she was helped by Joey, Lip, and Carl—leaves him a little worried about what they’re supposed to be driving for the next month on their cross-country road trip to visit all the states.

          Mandy grabs Ian’s hand when he’s out of the booth and starts pulling him toward the exit, and Ian gives Mickey a helpless little shrug over his shoulder as he lets her steer him outside.

          After one step onto the pavement out front, he pulls her to a stop, but his gaze his fixed solely on the old AMC Hornet she’s fixed up just for them. She’s already laughing before Mickey even appears behind them, but it only increases in volume when Mickey yells, “No _fucking_ way.”

          Ian laughs and bumps Mickey’s shoulder and goes to inspect the car. The rust-colored vehicle is decked out in writing. MICKEY AND IAN is scrawled across an entire side of it, except instead of “and” one of them wrote in a huge heart in between their names. Mickey snorts as he runs his fingers over it, and Ian mutters, “Probably Lip,” as he goes around to check out the rest of the car.

          Most of the graffiti is pretty tame. They filled the only real request Ian had, which was a bumper sticker with JUST MARRIED slapped onto the back, and Mandy saw fit to string some pink heart streamers in the back window. Ian just smirks at her when he sees it, knowing Mickey’s going to tear that off as soon as they get inside the car, but Mandy’s grinning like some criminal mastermind so Ian goes over to wrap her up in a big hug.

          “It’s horrible,” he admits when he sets her down. He jabs her in the sides so she squeals with laughter. “Mickey hates it, obviously.”

          “That was my only goal.” She beams and swats away his hands, reaching to ruffle his hair as payback, then turns around to shout into the bar. “Come out everyone, the lovebirds are leaving!”

          Their tiny party pools out onto the front walk, and Ian hugs everyone goodbye, promising he’ll see them in a month’s time and that he’ll try to at least text with some regularity. Mickey gives his siblings some cursory hugs, plus Carl, then waves awkwardly at the rest of Ian’s family.

          “You ready?” he asks Ian.

          Ian nods, turning around for one last goodbye. He waves once before turning around, and as he and Mickey head for the car, some of the watchers start throwing pebbles in lieu of rice. Mickey gives them all the finger for good measure, and Ian can hear Mandy laughing again. He takes the driver’s seat, mostly so he can turn to wave one more time through the window.

          His little family waves back, and then Mickey’s fingers are on his thigh.

          “You gonna drive?” he presses.

          Ian turns, smiles at him, and nods before shifting the car into gear. Mickey settles back in his seat, but his hand doesn’t leave Ian’s thigh for a long time.

 

          Ian sits up, wiping his hand over the back of his mouth. He smiles over at Mickey even as he leans to redo up his jeans for him.

          “My turn to drive?” he asks cheekily.

          Mickey elbows him hard and he sinks back into the passenger seat, not really expecting anything, but a few minutes later Mickey pulls off onto the shoulder of the relatively empty road. He doesn’t say anything as he shuts the engine and unbuckles, but he jerks his head when he climbs out of the car, and Ian follows him.

          He’s pretty sure they’re somewhere in Nevada, the sky clear and the stars bright above them as they lay back on the hood of the car. Mickey’s ring glints every now and then in the moonlight, and Ian keeps flicking his attention between his finger and the stars until Mickey reaches out and flicks him in the side.

          “The fuck are you looking at?” he whispers.

          Ian doesn’t even blush. “You,” he answers honestly, and so fast that Mickey rolls his head to look at him.

          After he studies him for a bit, and seems to decide he’s sincere, Mickey rolls his eyes. “Come here, then,” he mutters, reaching to pull Ian in by the jacket.

          He maneuvers Ian top of him, and Ian laughs delightedly he settles between his legs, never tired of being right here. When he frames Mickey’s face carefully a second later, his eyes are irrevocably drawn to the ring pressing against Mickey’s temple. He manages to tear his gaze away when Mickey leans up, closing his eyes a second before Mickey’s lips meet his. He sighs and relaxes into the kiss.

          “Love you so much,” Mickey breathes.

          He presses his lips lightly to Ian’s cheek, right on the bone, before Ian tugs him up against his mouth again. This time he licks his way past Mickey’s lips, basking in the little groan that follows as Mickey slides his tongue beside his own. He wants to focus on Mickey’s lips but he also doesn’t want to stop mapping out his mouth with his tongue, so he settles for sucking on his bottom lip and waiting until Mickey greedily pushes his tongue into Ian’s mouth. A second later he feels Mickey’s hips press up against his own.

          “Want me, Mick?” he asks, laughing breathily for a second before Mickey’s mouth covers his own once again. “Want me to… _mmf_ …Want me right on the hood of the car?”

          “Yeah.”

          He elaborates by pushing his hips up again, hard and insistent against Ian’s. Ian gives in to the heat of his mouth and tangles his fingers in Mickey’s hair, pulling slightly as he settles further between Mickey’s legs and starts grinding down, rolling his hips against Mickey’s ass like he would if they weren’t clothed. Like he would if he were already inside him.

          Mickey grumbles as Ian climbs off him a few minutes later, with one more peck to his lips and a promise to be right back. He has to root around in the glove compartment for a minute until he finds one of the bottles of lube they brought, and when he leans out of the car he sees that Mickey’s already halfway to naked.

          “Desperate, huh?” he asks as he climbs back on top of him. Mickey slaps his side but leans up to catch him in another kiss, and Ian’s fingers flutter around his ribs before he settles with a firm grip on his waist. Mickey catches his hands and very deliberately slides them down so Ian can grope his ass as he wriggles out of his boxers.

          Mickey seems almost disappointed when he’s done, when he sits back and eyes Ian and says, “You’re not naked.”

          “Neither are you,” Ian points out, tugging meaningfully on the hem of Mickey’s t-shirt.

          “M’closer than you are.”

          Ian doesn’t disagree, so he leans back to strip off his shirt and pushes Mickey onto his back to kiss him while Mickey works on undoing his jeans.

          “Gonna have to kill you if you don’t undress a little faster,” Mickey pants into his mouth.

          Ian shoves his pants down to his knees. “Not my fault. They’re just jeans.”

          “Wear more accessible clothes, then.”

          Ian bites his collarbone, but uncaps the lube at the same time, so Mickey seems pacified—especially a second later, when Ian works a finger into him. He grinds back almost lazily, his lips pliant when Ian leans to catch them between his own again. Mickey makes a happy little sound against his lips, back arching to give Ian a better angle to press another finger inside him. Ian complies, his movements deliberate and deep as he opens him.

          “Hey,” Mickey says after a minute, still clutching Ian’s shoulders while Ian fucks him with three fingers, now, “you ever think about if your ring got stuck up there?”

          Ian is so unwilling to believe Mickey’s talking about what he thinks he’s talking about that he doesn’t answer at first, convinced that Mickey’s tiny smile is going to transform into laughter and a scoffing declaration that he can’t believe Ian fell for that.

          “You’re not seriously thinking about that while I’m fingering you, are you?”

          Mickey shrugs. Ian raises an eyebrow and pointedly goes for his prostate in retribution, and Mickey arches up against him with a little, _“ah.”_

          “Alright,” he grumbles when he falls back against the hood of the car. “Message received. Ian’s not up for casual conversation.”

          “Not while I’m trying to prep you, Jesus. I’m never gonna be able to use my left hand for this ever again.”

          Mickey actually pouts a little, even when Ian pulls out and starts pushing into him with his cock instead. He presses a messy kiss to his lips while he does.

          “But you’re better at it with your left hand,” Mickey protests. “More practice.” He shifts around so he’s not in danger of slipping off the car when he wraps his legs properly around Ian’s hips.

          “You brought this on yourself,” Ian grunts, a little too busy starting up a hard rhythm between his legs to give any more focus to this ridiculous conversation. He grabs Mickey’s face with his left hand, ring knocking into his chin, and angles him so he can kiss him deep. He’s determined to put this entire thing to rest.

          Mickey, thankfully, allows it, opening his mouth enough to accommodate Ian’s tongue against his and grinding back on his cock while he continues to fuck him, a little faster when Mickey tugs desperately on his hair.

          A little while later, Mickey’s moaning, “Fuck, _Ian_ ,” and Ian tries and fails not to smirk too hard into his shoulder. Having Mickey’s full attention is always just a little too good.

          Ian shifts up onto his elbows for better leverage, his forearms bracketing Mickey’s head and shoulders, and Mickey grabs feebly for him as he moves away.

          “Ian,” he says again. “Need…Where are you going?”

          “Still right here,” Ian gasps, completely missing the nonchalance and snark he’d been aiming for. He’s barely even pulling out anymore, filling him with hard, short thrusts every time that has Mickey getting louder and louder with his little grunts and gasps.

          “I—” Mickey chokes off, lifting his hips with each thrust to get Ian in deeper.

          “Gonna make you feel good, Mickey,” Ian promises right as he balances on one arm so he can jack Mickey off, because he seems too busy digging both sets of nails into Ian’s back to do it himself. “Gonna make you feel…so…good…for the rest of your fucking…life.”

          “Yeah?” Mickey threads his fingers through Ian’s hair before he can respond, pulling him down to his lips.

          “Yeah,” Ian breathes when Mickey lets him go. “Yeah, I am. ‘Course I am.” And then, because he can feel his finish creeping up, he adds, “Come on, Mickey…”

          Mickey comes a minute or two later, gasping and mouthing on Ian’s neck, and Ian, who’s only been holding off so Mickey can finish, comes right after, fucking as hard as he can into him while Mickey rides out his own orgasm.

          Mickey sounds so good, and it seems to last forever. When they’re done, Ian doesn’t bother moving off him and Mickey doesn’t seem to mind. They just lay there, wrapped up in each other, until they’re suddenly bathed in light. A second later, the passing car whizzes by them and the headlights disappear, settling darkness over them once again. The short interruption of their privacy, however, is enough to have Ian sitting up and pulling out of him, rolling onto his back so he can tug his jeans back up his thighs. He’s pretty sure his shirt fell off onto the road, but he doesn’t bother going for it just yet, and anyway Mickey’s still in just his old tee.

          The first time either of them makes more than a satisfied little noise is when Ian interrupts their silent stargazing to reach over and slap his hand down on Mickey’s chest.

          “Didn’t lose this, by the way,” he says, tapping his fingers so the press of his ring is obvious when it digs in.

          Mickey rolls his eyes, but his scoff loses all power when he raises up his hand and curls it over the back of Ian’s, deliberately rubbing their wedding bands together.

          “Better not,” he grumbles. “Kinda getting used to seeing you with it.”

          “It’s only been two weeks.”

          Mickey abandons his hand so he can roll towards him, and Ian automatically weaves his fingers through Mickey’s hair when he kisses him, so lightly. Mickey keeps it short, though, but stays close, and Ian’s fingers release his hair so he can slide them through Mickey’s again. Mickey’s silent, but his nose brushes Ian’s, and he’s looking down at where he’s playing with Ian’s ring again.

          “Still. Kinda like seeing it there after all.”

          “Oh yeah?” Ian teases. “Think you’re gonna stay with me?”

          Mickey smiles softly when he leans in to brush their lips together again. “Was planning on it. A fucking husband, though, I swear.”

          Ian laughs, delighted with how light and happy Mickey sounds when he says it. “Say that again,” he says, with another kiss for encouragement.

          Mickey pushes in when he pulls away, prolonging the kiss until Ian’s breathless when Mickey finally lets him go. “Fucking husband,” he says again, a little growling as he tugs Ian’s hip harshly, bringing him closer, bringing them flush together. “Fucking husband, fucking husband, fucking husband. _My_ fucking husband.”

          Ian grins, feeling like a little kid who’s just discovered the best magic trick in the world. “Say it again,” he insists, one more time.

          “My fucking husband,” Mickey says, now smiling too. “For the rest of your fucking life, my husband.”

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ [hmu](http://absolutqueen.tumblr.com)


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